Table Of Content
TITLE PAGE
INTRODUCTION
DIPS
SMALL DISHES
DOLMAS
SALADS
VEGETABLES
FISH & SEAFOOD
MEAT
SWEETS
BASICS
COPYRIGHT PAGE
My mother went to school when she was seven. Her entire school — about fifty students — was
taught in a single room. One section of the room was Class One, another section was Class Two, and
so on. She didn’t have writing paper or a book or a pencil. She broke her brother’s pencil in half,
then ripped off half his writing paper so she had some paper and a pencil to write with.
When she was sixteen, she met my father through an arranged marriage. They were married, and
this was when my mother made her first meze. It was for my father.
In time her brother, Ibrahim Catma, became my father’s best friend, and my favourite uncle. In
those days meze was only for the men. They would sit at the table and the women would prepare the
food. To start, they might nibble on a bowl of salted pistachios, or fresh green almonds and a little
bowl of salt. They would dip the almonds into the salt and take a little bite, then have a sip of raki.
The bottle of raki would sit in the centre of the table with a jug of water. Each man had two glasses in
front of him. One glass would have two fingers of raki, the other glass would be full of water. The
glass of raki would then be topped with fresh water, turning the clear raki cloudy, into what we called
‘lion’s milk’. As a child I was mesmerised watching the men turn two clear liquids into a cloudy
nectar. Then they would raise their glasses and touch their hands together and say ‘Can Cana’
(pronounced ‘Jan Jana’), meaning ‘Life to Life’. If they were just friends they would say ‘Serefe’,
meaning ‘To your honour’.
Next the chunks of watermelon and feta would arrive, with slices of beautiful honeydew melon,
crunchy fingers of cucumber, delicious deep-red tomatoes and tender, sweet green baby capsicums
(bell peppers). After this would come the dishes of food braised in olive oil. A sip of raki, a sip of
water, and morsels of the meze.
Meanwhile the men would be chatting away solving the world’s problems while the women
prepared the next hot dish for the meze.
Nowadays we all sit together, men, women and children — all now share the same experience
that our fathers and uncles and grandfathers shared. Now we are part of the whole experience, but you
only make meze for your loved ones — those you wish to spend many, many hours with.
Meze is always a seasonal affair. Each region would have its own distinctive meze, depending
on the local produce of each season. Winter would bring fresh glossy anchovies, tossed in flour, fried
briefly and served with a chunk of juicy lemon.
In spring, there’d be green beans, tomatoes and stuffed capsicums (bell peppers).
Music was always part of the experience. When I was a child, I watched the big black discs
with a hole in the middle go round and round: vinyl records. If anyone could play an instrument, they
would entertain us. Maybe someone would play the saz — a traditional long-handled stringed
instrument.
Nowadays in Turkey you may go to a taverna or meyhane and the waiter will come to your table
with trays of meze and you select the food your eyes are seduced by. Then you choose the main meal.
Everything is shared, every little dish, and always there is much discussion about each morsel.
History tells us meze originated in Persia and spread throughout Turkey and beyond as the
Ottoman Empire expanded. Today it is a way of living and eating, sharing all, including breakfast,
lunch and dinner. For breakfast we drink tea, for lunch we drink ayran (a chilled yoghurt drink). As
the sun goes down we drink raki or beer, or a glass of delicious wine. Times have changed!
There are no rules with meze. It is personal, it is seasonal, it is flexible — it is the food that
matches your choice of drink. Also, it depends how much time you have in your busy life. The meze
could be dishes such as stuffed vine leaves or zucchini (courgette), stuffed tomatoes, fried sardines or
anchovies, or perhaps a purée of broad beans (fava beans), or an eggplant (aubergine) salad. There
will be many small dishes to follow the meze.
My mother used to tell me a story about a sultan who had two sons. His favourite and elder son
gave him all the gold and silver and treasures of the world, saying, ‘I love you as much as all the
treasures in the world.’ The sultan replied, ‘I love you, my son!’ The sultan’s younger son, however,
told his father, ‘I love you as much as all the grains of salt.’ The younger son then prepared a huge
meze table for his father, using no salt in any of the dishes. The sultan tasted the food and declared,
‘Son, there is no flavour in this food!’ To which his younger son replied, ‘So, Father, now you know
how I feel about you.’
This story taught me a lesson. I never put salt and pepper on my customers’ tables with my meze:
I believe food brought to the table should have all the love and seasoning in it already.
I came to Australia in 1985 as a child bride, at the age of sixteen, to marry the man arranged for
me. Years went by and a woman called Elea became one of my most beautiful friends. One night I
wanted to cook dinner for her. What could I make for my friend? It had to be the most delicious meal
in the world, but at the time I only had five dollars to spend. So I went to the greengrocer, then the
supermarket, then the butcher. And then I went back to the vegie shop and bought some little bits of
vegetables. Then I went back to the butcher and asked, ‘Can I please get some chicken carcasses?
How much will that be?’ He said, ‘Nothing for the chicken carcasses for you, little one.’ So I went
home, put the carcasses in the biggest pot I could find and fried them in a little oil until golden. I
washed and chopped my vegetables and added them to my pot. I topped it up with a bit of water and
salt and pepper and cooked it until my vegetables were tender. A few minutes later Elea arrived with
a bottle of Australian chardonnay and I have never looked back! She still loves my soup.
When I was nineteen I met raki for the first time. It is the Turkish national drink, made with
aniseed. For the first few mouthfuls we got on quite well. But after a few more mouthfuls we had a
massive fight. You can imagine who won. (It wasn’t me.) I didn’t know how to drink like my father or
my loved ones: I was a raki virgin! Raki and I haven’t met since then. But, since every Turk thinks it
is the lion’s milk, it might be different for you… More years passed, and by the age of twenty-seven I
had my own restaurant in Angourie, a small coastal town in northern New South Wales. Times were
tough, winters were quiet — so I began to arrange backgammon tournaments with meze platters for
local families and new friends, and I was able to pay my bills.
Years later, I sit in my own home and think about my new Beachwood cafe, where people order
everything off the menu, and how I carry out the sharing plates many times without even realising that
I have created my own meze.
My meze has always been in my blood. It is the way I love to eat, the way I love to entertain, the
way I love to share my food. When I look back at my life in Australia, all my cafes have been based
on meze, but I have never written this on my menu blackboard. Today, I serve my meze plates to
people and watch the smiles on their beatiful faces. When I clear the plates, they are empty, with
finger swipes on them, and that makes me smile.
Now I want to share my meze with you.
In summer, Turkish people thin this delicious dip with a little water and enjoy it as a refreshing
cold soup with fresh crusty bread.
250 g (9 oz/1 cup) Yoghurt
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 Lebanese (short) cucumber, diced
30 g (1 oz/½ cup) chopped dill
extra virgin olive oil, for drizzling
In a bowl, gently mix together the yoghurt, garlic, cucumber and most of the dill. Season to taste with
sea salt.
Drizzle with a little olive oil, garnish with the remaining dill and serve. This dip is best enjoyed
straight away.
Serves 4
Please don’t ever use bottled or pre-peeled garlic in your cooking. It is best if you peel your own
garlic, whenever you use it, whether you crush it, fry it or chop it. Don’t allow anyone else to
handle your garlic, unless they are loved ones — otherwise the garlic can taste bitter or old, and
you don’t know where it comes from or who has fiddled with it!
If you are using large quantities of garlic, pop the cloves in warm water for a few hours and
they will be much easier to peel.
250 g (9 oz/1 cup) Yoghurt cheese
2 garlic cloves, crushed
pinch of sea salt
25 g (1 oz/½ cup) chopped mint, plus extra leaves to garnish
Combine all the ingredients in a bowl. Garnish with extra mint leaves and serve with crusty hot
bread.
This dip can be made several hours ahead and is wonderful with lamb or chicken.
Serves 4
